


Upon the Night Wind

by tosca1390



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-09
Updated: 2011-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-14 15:55:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca1390/pseuds/tosca1390
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Much of their life together was quiet deflection and circling around the tender spots that hung between them. It all carried over as the dark clouds in the distance that loomed closer every time she went on a set of road matches, or he had to disappear in the middle of the night to some random forest in Wales.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Upon the Night Wind

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://lyras.livejournal.com/profile)[**lyras**](http://lyras.livejournal.com/) for the 2010 edition of [](http://community.livejournal.com/smutty_claus/profile)[**smutty_claus**](http://community.livejournal.com/smutty_claus/). Originally posted [here](http://community.livejournal.com/smutty_claus/149122.html). All Orkney mythology was found on [Orkney Jar](%E2%80%9Chttp://www.orkneyjar.com/index.html%E2%80%9D). Thanks to [](http://r-becca.livejournal.com/profile)[**r_becca**](http://r-becca.livejournal.com/) for not only her assistance in the brainstorming process, but for her continued management of [](http://community.livejournal.com/smutty_claus/profile)[**smutty_claus**](http://community.livejournal.com/smutty_claus/).

*

“I’m leaving for Firth next Thursday.”

For a moment, the room was silent. Then, Ginny felt a gentle touch along her neck, into the hair falling around her face. “Firth?” Harry asked.

She didn’t look up from _Great Expectations_ (a novel she wasn’t enjoying very much, not that she’d tell Hermione that), her legs curled underneath her as she and Harry sat together on the couch. He’d managed to light a real honest-to-Merlin fire in the hearth (only the fifth in their two-year residency of their flat), and he had files and parchment from the office on his lap, but she’d felt the weight of his gaze on her more often than not in the last hour or so.

“Yes, Firth,” she said, flipping a page with the tips of her fingers.

“I have no idea where Firth is,” he said, setting his files on the coffee table in front of them. In the high panes of the living room window, the moon hung in a silver sliver; frost curled icy branches along the seams of the glass.

Sighing, she looked at him. “It’s in the Orkneys.”

“And that would be?”

She shot him a hard look. “For an Auror, you’re quite daft.”

“So you’ve told me before,” he said, smiling slightly.

Her mouth quirked. “The islands off the coast of Scotland. Those are the Orkneys. Firth is one of the towns on the Mainland, the biggest of the islands,” she replied, eyes flickering back to her page.

“What are you doing in Firth?” he asked after a moment.

She couldn’t help the warm flood of pride and excitement rising from her middle, coloring her face. “Scotland is hosting an all-female international Quidditch exposition. England asked me to play for them, and I said yes,” she said.

He raised a brow, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “But it’s the holiday break.”

“Yes, but they asked me to play as a first-string Chaser with a group of very talented people. Why would I say no?” she asked, turning down the top corner of her page and setting the book aside.

Behind his glasses, she could almost see the wheels turning in his head, parsing out what he should and shouldn’t say at this moment. Since they’d moved in together, it was a familiar look. There was no running off to his shared flat with Ron, or the Burrow—they were in this together, and he took his time with her now, just as she did with him.

“You shouldn’t say no. I’m glad they asked you,” he said finally, lowering his hand to her arm, his fingers curling around her wrist through her thick Weasley-made sweater. “I’ll miss you, that’s all.”

There was a thin film of guilt in his words, aimed right at her, but she still smiled. Much of their life together was quiet deflection and circling around the tender spots that hung between them, from his cruel childhood and their singularly rocky adolescences. It all carried over as the dark clouds in the distance that loomed closer every time she went on a set of road matches, or he had to disappear in the middle of the night to some random forest in Wales.

But this night was pleasant, and warm, and she didn’t want to feel the weight of all that now. “You’ve turned into such a softie, Potter,” she teased, slipping her hand into his. “When did that happen?”

“Softie? I’m not,” he protested, even as he rubbed his thumb over her freckled knuckles.

“Whatever you say,” she murmured, unfolding herself from her curled position. Her hand still laced into his, she slipped over him lithely. He stretched his legs out as she settled atop his thighs.

“You do things like this and I may not let you leave,” he murmured, reaching up to kiss her.

She hummed softly against his mouth, inhaling the soap and sweat and wool of his day. “You could come with me.”

“To where? Upstairs?” he teased, his free hand finding a place at her waist, tracing the curve of it against the rough wool of her sweater.

She shivered, but her gaze remained steady. “Later. I mean to the tournament,” she said, leaning over him. Her hair fell across his cheek, his glasses.

Something jarred through him; she felt it through their clothes, deep in her bones. “You want me to go?”

Her face flushed and she tightened her fingers in his. “We’ve never been on holiday together on our own, you know.”

“Quite true,” he said, rubbing the jut of her hip through her sweater. He was decidedly not looking at her, the same way he hadn’t looked at her when she suggested they travel around Europe two summers ago for his twentieth birthday (a profound age, she thought, but he’d begged off due to work).

“I thought it could be nice,” she added, curving over him, her mouth skirting closely towards his. The hair on the back of his neck rose up under her fingertips, and she smiled. “I’m only going to be playing for one day and one morning. We could make a whole weekend of it.”

He still wasn’t looking at her. His fingers curled under her sweater, touching bare skin. “A bit of a weird place for a holiday.”

Rolling her eyes, she sat up and crossed her arms across her chest. “You don’t want to go?”

Opening his mouth for a moment, he then snapped it shut again, frowning slightly. The fire crackled behind them; sweat slid along the line of her spine.

“You don’t want to go,” she repeated, voice sharp.

“I don’t like traveling,” he muttered, hands stilling on her waist. “You know that.”

Immediately, she had a flash of empty woods, a cold tent, Hermione trying to silently cry in the middle of the night, Harry’s gauntness and scruff that met her as she climbed through the hidden entrance to the Room of Requirement. “I’m not asking for a world tour. You’d still be in the United Kingdom, even,” she said after a moment, trying to soften her words.

He finally looked at her, eyes hooded and dark. “I know.”

“I’m not asking for anything more than a weekend in the Orkneys. A little bit of Quidditch, some walking in a beautiful place, a lot of holiday shagging. I’ve heard it’s nice. Perhaps restorative,” she wheedled, planting her hands on his chest. “Hermione swears by them. She likes traveling.”

Harry’s mouth stilled, his face froze. He seemed to go cold right in front of her eyes. It was the wrong thing to say, but she couldn’t help it; sometimes she wondered why Ron and Hermione seemed so adjusted and collected (in their own way) about the twists and turns of their lives, while Harry seemed to stall every so often, in traveling (which they didn’t), or taking her to Godric’s Hollow (which he hadn’t yet), or letting Grimmauld Place sit and collect dust.

She sighed, shoulders slumping. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she said quietly. “I’d just like you to come with me.”

The Muggle clock (a gift from her father) chimed nine on the mantle. The heat from the fire felt like an oven against her back, but still she remained, pinning him with her eyes.

“It’s slow this time of year,” he said slowly, finally, his gaze still distant and hooded. “I could take a few days.”

She smiled in relief and pleasure. “Really?”

“Yeah, reckon so,” he said, mouth quirking.

“Excellent,” she said quickly, before he could change his mind, kissing him firmly, his lips smooth and dry against hers. “I didn’t want to go alone—“

“You go to tournaments alone all the time,” he said, their mouths inches from each other.

Before he could say another word, she kissed him again. “So? I reckon you need to get out more often.”

His hand on her waist slipped to her thigh, edging her closer. “I get out tons,” he murmured, chasing her mouth with his.

She laughed low and soft in her throat. “Harry, you’re practically a hermit.”

He sank deeper into the sofa. “I like our flat. I like you. It’s a compliment to your company, actually,” he said, awkward again.

Face softening, she watched him carefully. “I know.”

He reddened under her gaze. “But I reckon we can give holiday shagging a try.”

She laughed at that. “And here I was thinking I’d have to work harder to convince you,” she said dryly, curling her body over his and kissing him again, slow and deep.

Releasing her hand, he cupped her cheek. He tasted of cider and the cookies they’d eaten hours ago; heat rolled low in her middle. “I could stand some more convincing,” he murmured into her mouth.

Her fingers felt their way down his chest, under the hem of his thick sweater. “You are rather stubborn, as history would suggest,” she said, tugging his sweater up, up, up over his glasses, his head. She watched as his skin prickled into goosebumps as the air curled in the spaces between their bodies. His hair was mussed beyond repair, his glasses askew, and in that moment he looked like that lost little boy again, and her heart thumped painfully.

“Come on,” she murmured softly, sliding off his thighs and onto her feet. Her toes curled against the throw rug, and she took his broad hands in hers. “Let’s go upstairs.”

Shirtless, he rose, glancing back at the fire. “What about—“

She took out her wand and murmured a charm, and the fire disappeared with a soft, hushed _whoosh_. “Magic, remember?” she teased, raising a brow.

The table lamp cast a softer, dimmer glow, shading in the sharp angles of his face. He nodded, eyes still serious, and leaned into kiss her. His arm curled around the width of her back, pulling her against bare skin and lean muscle. His mouth was warm, his touch was solid, and for the moment, she could forget the darkness cropping up between them.

*

“D’you reckon you’ll get sick of me?”

Below him, at the mercy of his wandering hands, Ginny looked askance at Harry, rubbing at blurry eyes. Only moonlight lit the bedroom, silver and soft and icy along the wood floors. A thin film of sweat clung to her body; he had already tugged her shirt over her head, and as more of her bare skin met the cool air, it raised goosebumps along her skin.

“What are you going on about?” she asked, voice breathy.

He looked at her steadily, skimming a firm hand along the line of her torso. His calluses caught on her skin, the curve of her waist, the jut of her hip, and she caught a quick breath. “Will you get tired of me?” he asked, voice low. His eyes were bright in the darkness, moonlight glancing off his glasses.

She couldn’t help but arch into his touch; her thighs tightened around his thigh, settled between her legs. “Is this still about earlier?” she murmured, half wanting to throttle him, half wanting to roll him over and finish what they’d started in the living room twenty minutes ago.

Shrugging, he placed the flat of his palm on her stomach. His whole body seemed tense, stiff lines and angles in the muted room. “I don’t enjoy going places. Not for work, not for fun, not at all.”

For a moment, she thought about wriggling out of her bra, and distracting him that way, but the awkward cloud was back, hovering in the open space between their bodies, and she couldn’t force it out. “You need to do it, though. Eventually you’ll like it,” she said after a moment, stroking her fingertips down the lines of his arms, the soft skin in the crook of his elbows.

He sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I’d rather just stay home.”

“That solves everything,” she retorted without any real heat, shifting under him.

Shooting her a look, he drummed his fingers idly on her stomach. “Bad things happen when I travel.”

She made an impatient noise in the back of her throat, and used her hands on his elbows to catch him off balance. He fell with a surprised yelp onto his back as she followed, straddling his thighs and using the opportunity to slip her bra off. “You sound like a dolt right now, do you know that? Besides, you don’t travel enough to have a track record for that,” she said firmly, bracing her hands on his chest and leaning down to kiss him fiercely. “So no more talking, okay?”

After a moment of stillness borne from shock, he kissed her back, his hands curving around the slope of her breasts. Her nipples peaked in the cool air and she made a soft sound into his mouth. “And another thing,” she whispered breathlessly, her fingertips digging into his sides, “you don’t stop in the middle of shagging to have moronic discussions about whether I’ll get sick of you.”

“It was on my mind,” he murmured, arching his hips into hers. She could feel the hard length of him against the inside of her naked thigh.

“I’m practically starkers and _that_ was on your mind? That’s seriously depressing,” she murmured, kissing along the stubbled line of his jaw, her teeth grazing his skin.

He thumbed a nipple and she hissed softly. “I’m the lucky one, here. Someday you’ll wake up and realize it,” he murmured.

She raised her eyes to his, raising a brow. “You really are the daftest man I’ve ever met,” she said after a moment, reaching up and peeling the glasses from his face. Never taking her eyes off of him, she set them aside on his bedside table. “And I’ve met all of my brothers, so that’s saying quite a bit.”

He laughed at that, a slow soft sound from his chest that she could feel in her bones. “I reckon you’re right about that, at least,” he said.

His face was weirdly young without his glasses. She shut her eyes and kissed him again, murmuring softly against his mouth, nonsensical sounds and words. She only wanted him to feel and hear the solidity of her, the immovability of her love. His hands traced along the bare skin of her hip and inner thigh, closer and closer to the wet heat between her thighs, and she breathed out warm and slow against his mouth, shifting her hips against his.

Her mouth found the strong warm pulse in his neck as his fingers slipped between her thighs, and she couldn’t help the moan caught in her throat, the husky sound of his name on her lips. He made a soft, strangled sound against her ear, her hair; his finger traced her wet clit, sending shudders through her body. Heat pressed through her nerves, flushed all her bare skin; she couldn’t help but straighten up, bracing herself on his chest.

“God,” he murmured, a soft distant sound. He slipped two fingers into her, his thumb pressing on her clit insistently, and she moaned again, digging her fingers into his abdomen. “Look at you.”

She flushed, both at his words and at the curl of his fingers inside her, the slow teasing in-and-out. “And you wanted to _talk_ ,” she murmured breathily, rolling her hips in rhythm with his hand.

His other hand slipped over her stomach to her breast. “I’m a prat, I know,” he murmured.

Opening her eyes, she breathed out raggedly, watching his eyes darken in the dim light. “Harder,” she whispered thickly, one of her hands pressing on top of the hand over her breast.

Face red and mouth parted, he kept his eyes on her as he added a third finger. His thumb circled her clit in a jagged, off-putting rhythm, sharp bursts of pleasure to keep her off-center. Heat licked through her body, her nerves all aflame, and she whispered a soft hiss of a _yes_. Her fingers trembled against his chest; she had to shut her eyes, still unnerved by how he watched her in the sweat-slick darkness of their bed, even after all this time. Three years felt like a lifetime, after all this time.

He murmured her name, low and hoarse in his throat, and pressed his thumb hard to her clit. She came with a stuttering breath and a low quiet moan, panting, the loose strands of her hair stuck to her damp neck. His hand, damp and sticky, landed on her upper thigh, soothing the warm skin there.

“Love you,” he said after a quiet, breath-heavy moment.

She looked at him, still catching her breath, still feeling the remnants of pleasure skittering through her nerves, the familiar slickness, the heady scent. “I know,” she said finally, voice thick.

He smiled slightly, a sharp slice of teeth in the darkness. “Okay then.”

Loose-limbed, she reached down between his thighs, fingers curling around his hard length. “Let me show you how fun holidays can be,” she murmured, stroking him and pulling a half-breath, half-groan from his throat before covering his mouth with a long slow kiss.

*

“Something’s off.”

Ginny rolled her eyes, setting her suitcase heavily on the bed. “You feel that way about every place that isn’t home,” she said, glancing back at Harry.

The rented room was small but cozy, with a lovely view of the sea, the rocky coastline, and the patches of green grass parsed out through the rocky terrain. The inn she’d chosen was isolated, on the outskirts of the main road through Firth, but even the town itself seemed too quiet, an eerie sort of silence. But it was pleasant, and the innkeeper welcomed them with a smile and a soft, somewhat melancholic lilt of an accent.

Standing stiffly near the doorway, Harry held his luggage close to his body, mouth curled in a frown. He’d looked quite the same since they’d left their flat a few hours ago, with the frown only deepening from one Portkey to another. “There isn’t anything wrong with liking home,” he muttered.

She couldn’t help but soften, crossing the creaking floorboard to kiss him gently. “I’m glad you’re here,” she murmured against his mouth.

He dropped his bag and latched his fingers around her hips, holding tight. “Me too.”

“And I’m sorry for the Portkeys,” she added, biting the inside of her lip.

Sighing silently, he shrugged. “We have to use them at work sometimes. I’m used to it.”

Her fingers curled into the soft knit of his sweater. “I didn’t know that,” she said after a moment.

He fell silent, fingers drumming along the line of her hip.

“Do you really reckon something’s off?” she asked, watching him carefully.

Shrugging, he glanced off towards the large window near their bed. “Just have a weird feeling, is all.”

Pursing her lips, she kissed his cheek once before slipping from his arms and moving back towards the bed. “I still feel weird from travelling. It’ll pass,” she said, beginning to unpack. “It’s lovely here, isn’t it?”

He nodded, walking towards the window. “Very. Out of the way. Perfect for hiding a magical sporting event.”

She smiled. “I reckoned you’d like it. Now, I’ve got practice in the morning, and then the exhibition matches are in the afternoon and evening and Saturday morning, but then we have Saturday afternoon and Sunday all to ourselves. Read the guide books, we’ll do whatever you like,” she said, setting out her lucky Gryffindor socks to take with her tomorrow.

“Anything?” he teased, glancing back at her. The late afternoon sunlight lit his face and hair, warming his skin. “What if I want to stay in the room?”

“You get one use of that suggestion,” she shot back.

“Per day?” he said with a slight smirk.

Rolling her eyes, she set her still-full luggage on the chair near the desk. “I’m famished. Let’s go eat,” she said.

And if she felt a creeping along her spine as they walked through the quiet streets of Firth, she didn’t say so.

*

The next morning, she left Harry sated and asleep in their warm bed before heading out into the chilly late November air. The sky was oddly blue and seemed closer than at home, close enough to touch. Her broom across her shoulder, she wandered slowly towards the small wooded clearing in the outskirts of town being used for the exhibition and for all practices; the land was still strangely green for this late in autumn, but perhaps the weather was different in this part of Scotland. The breeze off of the ocean was salty and heartening; she breathed in deeply, curling her toes in her lucky socks.

When she arrived in the changing rooms for the English team (which was really just a magicked tent, like the one her father set up during that disastrous World Cup years ago), all the girls were gathered in a clump, faces drawn and grey.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, setting her broom and kit to the side, near the makeshift lockers.

With her hair pulled back, Alicia Spinnet looked severe and serious, her eyes dark with worry. The makeshift cloth “C” pinned to her kit shivered in the breeze. “One of the players from Norway disappeared from town overnight,” she said quietly.

A chill settled through Ginny. “Disappeared? What do you mean?”

“She was in her room, and then she wasn’t,” another girl Ginny didn’t know, with blonde hair and a thin face, piped up.

“Perhaps there was just a family emergency,” Ginny said with an easiness she didn’t feel. “We shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”

“Still,” said Emma, a Keeper and the only one of Ginny’s fellow Harpies invited to the event, “this place is a bit strange. Apparently there are a lot of ghosts and fairies and the like. People have disappeared from here before.” She shook her dark head, smoothing her pixie cut in a familiar nervous gesture. “A lot of us aren’t used to this kind of adventure.”

At once, Ginny felt all eyes turn to her; her stomach swooped just the slightest, the air around her thickening. Perhaps they hadn’t, but _she_ had. She could see what they were thinking, just as if they’d spoken it out loud; she was Harry Potter’s girlfriend, a Weasley sister and a few of them were from her year at Hogwarts, if from different houses, and had probably heard rumors, if not the total truth, about her involvement with the Chamber of Secrets. Her whole body felt cold, her fingertips like ice. Would she ever escape those years?

Harry’s words curled back through her mind; _Something’s off_ , he’d said. _Bad things happen when I travel_.

Could any of them truly escape any of it?

In the tent, the silence had gone on too long. The other girls shifted anxiously, and Ginny cleared her throat. “I doubt it’s any trouble, really. We would have heard something from the organizers of this thing,” she said firmly, swallowing the lump in her throat. She met Alicia’s gaze, nodding. “The girl probably went home, that’s all.”

Alicia’s face smoothed after a moment, and she looked around at the other girls. “Ginny’s right. And Norway brought a reserve, so we can all still play. It’ll be a fun day of matches, so we ought to get out there and prepare,” she said briskly. “Get your brooms, we’ll head out for drills. We only have an hour on the pitch as it is.”

The girls, wearing various shades of relief on their faces, murmured to themselves as they grabbed their brooms and filed out, leaving Ginny and Alicia to trail behind. “It’s a little bizarre,” Alicia said after a moment.

Ginny nodded, mouth dry. “A little. But stranger things have happened,” she murmured.

Alicia looked at her for a silent moment, then nodded and walked ahead, barking out drills. Ginny stayed behind, changing slowly into her kit, a weird shiver in her hands.

*

Even tired and sweaty from a day of exhibition matches, Ginny still climbed onto Harry with gusto when they reached their room once more.

“You had fun,” she teased breathlessly, tugging his sweater off and dropping it to the floor as they traveled further into the room. “I saw you clapping, and _cheering_. I thought I was going to fall off my broom, seeing you so excited.”

Harry still had his sheepishly wide smile on his face, his cheeks red from the chill and the wind. “You were brilliant,” he said ardently, his glasses crooked on his nose.

She knelt on their made-up bed in front of him, her arms linking around his neck. “Well, yes,” she said with a smirk, kissing him lightly. “I always play better when you’re there.”

“You’d be brilliant whether I was there or not,” he said fondly, his hand at the small of her back pressing her close.

The sun was setting across the watery horizon, streaking the room an orangey-purple as she kissed along the side of his jaw, her fingers curling into the fine hair at the nape of his neck. The cold unsettled feeling that had followed her all day had finally disappeared once she’d gotten into the sky. England had trounced both Spain and France easily, and would face Bulgaria in the last match in the morning, and her adrenaline was still high from the win and from having Harry in the crowd, which didn’t happen as much as they both liked during the regular season.

Nothing had been heard about the Norwegian player yet, but Ginny was certain she’d just gone home. What else could it be?

Harry’s hands found the hem of her cotton shirt, tugging up. “You on that broom, you’re bloody beautiful,” he murmured against the thin skin of her throat, her shirt falling forgotten to the floor.

She shivered at the thick sound of his voice, dragging her fingers through his hair, along the line of his scalp.His mouth followed the line of her neck, his body pressing her down towards the soft mattress. As her back hit the bed, she tilted her head to the side, opened her eyes into the dimming evening—

And through the window met the unrelenting eyes of a pale, auburn-haired child, whose mouth was moving, hands pressed to the pane.

Her entire body went still and stiff, and she sucked in a sharp audible breath to keep from screaming, looking away up at the ceiling.

“Ginny?” Harry said, lifting his head, and she couldn’t keep herself from meeting his gaze. His hair was mussed, his mouth red, but the slight smile faded as he looked at her. “What’s wrong?” he said, levering himself up to a stand.

Hesitating, she glanced back to the window, and found nothing there except for the dusky evening, and the water in the distance. “Nothing. Nothing,” she said after a long moment, sitting up and brushing an impatient hand through her hair.

“It doesn’t look like nothing,” he said quietly.

She looked at him then, remembered him relaxed and asleep in the morning, energetic and happy at the Quidditch pitch, and didn’t have the heart to ruin it all with what was surely just a hallucination. “Just a little tired, I reckon,” she said, smoothing her hands over her face and hair.

He looked at her carefully, running a hand through his hair. “Tired?” he asked after a moment.

Summoning nonchalance, she smiled slowly. “Those French, they were spritely,” she murmured, curling her fingers around his neck and bringing him down for a soft kiss.

He kissed her for a moment, the cool lenses of his glasses pressing into her cheeks. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

She pushed back the chill in her chest for the solidity of his warm body, the green gaze bright in the darkening room. “No more questions, unless they’re inappropriate ones,” she murmured, hitching her thigh across his hip and kissing him into silence.

Later, as he slept quietly next to her, Ginny kept her eyes on the window, a weird chill settling in her chest. She lay curled on her side, burrowed under the quilt, but sleep evaded her. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw a pale young face and wide sad eyes, and the sight haunted her every breath.

*

“Morning, miss,” the plump innkeeper called to Ginny as she lumbered wearily down the steps on Saturday. Early morning sun crept across the front hall floor, pale sweet yellow and gold. “Sleep well?”

Ginny sighed, only a few steps to the front door. She wasn’t really in the mood for small talk this morning. “Yes, fine, thank you,” she murmured distractedly, moving towards the door.

“You keep a weather eye out, miss. Another girl’s gone missing. It’s always the young ones in this town,” the innkeeper warned, her grey-streaked head bent over the reservation book.

Hand frozen on the doorknob, Ginny glanced back. “Another?”

The older woman, who reminded Ginny irresistibly of her mother, looked up, tucking a stray lock back into her bun. “Yes, another. Didn’t you hear yesterday about the blonde girl staying in the inn on the other side of town? And there was another from that same inn, just discovered this morning.”

The stairs creaked, and Harry’s dark, sleep-mussed hair came into view. Ginny’s stomach sank. “No, I wasn’t aware,” she said slowly.

“Don’t you worry, dear. Nothing like that would ever happen at my inn,” the older woman said proudly.

Ginny’s ears perked up, despite her weariness. “Why not?”

“Because I’d never have an inn right next to and on top of a graveyard. I wouldn’t care if the building was an old church and the architecture was gorgeous, it would still smack of bad luck to me,” she said, nodding to Harry as he landed on the bottom step. “Good morning, sir.”

Harry nodded, but kept his gaze on Ginny. “Morning.”

 _Perfect_. Ginny jerked her head towards the door, and with a quick goodbye scurried out of the front door, Harry’s heavy steps behind her. In the pale morning sun, all the trees and grass still had the edges of melting frost at their tips, reflecting in the light. She breathed in deeply, trying to twist her mind around the mystery that had seemingly laid itself at her feet.

Or, she thought as Harry grasped her elbow, catching her mid-step, at _their_ feet.

“A girl disappeared?” he asked, letting her go.

She looked up at him; his eyes looked even greener in the sunlight. “One of the Norwegian players, the first night we were here. I heard about it yesterday, but I didn’t think anything of it,” she said. “This other girl I don’t know anything about.”

Harry looked grim about the mouth as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “The second girl is from the French team.”

Her mouth fell open in surprise. “What?”

“The organizers just sent me an owl. They want me to look into it,” he said, stuffing his hands in his jeans pockets.

She couldn’t help the disappointment cresting through her; the last thing she’d wanted was for him to be bothered by this. “I reckoned the Norwegian girl had just gone home or, something. I didn’t imagine it was a big thing,” she said, hands resting on her hips.

A cool breeze ruffled his hair as he shrugged. “I don’t mind poking into it. I am here.”

Abruptly, cold shivered through her. She wanted to close the distance between them, to touch him for a moment, but something held her back. It was back, that awkward darkness that sometimes crept over them, and she didn’t quite know what to do. “Once the match is finished, I can help,” she said finally. “I’d like to help you.”

He looked startled, mouth partly agape. “What if it’s dangerous?”

“Because I’m not able to handle myself in possibly dangerous situations?” she retorted, raising a brow. She reckoned the scars left over from her year under the cruel rule of the Carrows were proof enough against that.

“I didn’t say—“. He stopped mid-sentence, brow furrowing. “All right. You’re right.”

“Thank you,” she said, shifting her weight from heel to heel for a nervous moment. Finally, she stepped over and kissed the corner of his mouth, her hand falling to his sweater-clad chest. “Meet you after the match, then?”

He nodded silently. She smiled slightly and walked off, feeling his eyes on her back even as she disappeared around the bend.

*

Later, over a lunch of shepherd’s pie (for Ginny) and bangers and mash (for Harry), she skimmed over the guidebook as he bowed his head over a book of local folklore. The pub was quiet at midday, despite being the only one in town; many of the others here for the Quidditch exhibition had already left. Still exhilarated from the win and scoring the winning goal, Ginny could hardly keep the smile from her face, despite the circumstances.

“Anything helpful?” she asked after a moment, swallowing her last bite of lunch.

“The usual. Faeries, strange lights, trolls stealing children and livestock. D’you think that really happened?” he asked, not looking up from the well-worn book.

She shrugged, glancing out the window against their tiny booth. The sky, which had started out blue and clear, was now overcast with clouds, grey and threatening rain. “Hermione would say they only did so out of desperation, I reckon.”

“They’re not quite the same as elves, though,” he muttered.

“You tell her that, and I’ll sit back and watch the show,” she teased.

He glanced up at her then, smiling faintly. “Thanks a lot.”

Wrapping her hands around her still-warm cup of tea, she leaned against the back of the booth. “Did you speak to the innkeeper again?” she asked, pressing the toe of her trainer against one of his under the table.

He nodded. “She was quite helpful. Very talkative.”

Ginny smirked slightly. “Reckon she thought you were handsome.”

Glaring at her, he cleared his throat. “She said that every so often, a girl disappears from here on the Mainland. But they almost always show up after a week or two, with no memory and seemingly no injuries. This is the first time two have disappeared within a day of each other.”

Humming thoughtfully, she sipped her tea. “Interesting.”

“All the girls are young, in their teens or twenties, and they all say they were trying to help a lost child,” he went on, trapping her ankle between his, the grip and warmth comforting. “But that’s the extent of their similarities.”

She remembered wide eyes, a pale ghostly face, wide and young, pressed against glass panes. “Harry,” she said after a hesitant moment, still holding her cup as a comfort.

“Is this about last night?” he asked quietly.

Surprised, she met his steady gaze. Even through the glasses, his eyes were serious, intent on her. “You saw something,” he continued, voice low.

She wet her lips, fingers tightening around the thick white china. “How did you know?”

He shrugged, looking off to the side. “You can distract me with shagging all you want; I still know when something’s bothering you. I know you,” he said simply.

Relaxing into the worn leather cushion, she gently rubbed the toe of her trainer against his ankle. “I saw a face in the window. A child’s face. It was just for a moment, but…” she trailed off with a shrug.

In the silence that settled between them, the barmaid brought their bill and took their empty plates. Ginny could hear the wind whistling faintly outside, imagined the slow crash of the North Sea against the rocky cliffs, and she breathed deeply.

“A child,” he said finally, and she looked at him. Behind his eyes the wheels were turning, clicking together.

Back to his book, he flipped through pages at random, eyes shifting quickly from side to side. She sat up straight, setting her teacup down and smiling slightly; she liked to see him at work, putting the puzzle pieces together. He was smarter than a lot of people gave him credit for.

“Here,” he said after a moment, turning the book towards her, his finger placed on the middle of the page. “Children buried without the proper rites will stay behind and haunt their mothers, or haunt the gravesite.”

She scanned the page, an odd sense of sadness panging through her veins. “The inn that the girls were staying in, it’s an old church with a graveyard next to it,” she said after a moment.

His hand covered one of hers on the table, and she looked up. Though his eyes were still deep and serious, his mouth had a bit of a smile playing at it. “Want to go on a date to a graveyard tonight?” he asked quietly.

Though her nerves were all afire, she still nodded and leaned over the table to kiss him lightly. “Sounds lovely. I’m all for it.”

  
*

Being much more to the North than their flat in London, the sun set earlier here. It was barely five in the evening, but the sky was already purple with night as Ginny perched herself on a rock overlooking the silent graveyard. It was a small plot of land; some of the gravestones were crumbling, overgrown with vines. Shivering, she glanced over at Harry, who was pacing from point to point.

“Come sit,” she called softly.

“Are you cold?” he asked instead, shrugging off his short leather jacket (this past birthday’s gift from George, who had one to match, as all investors should, he’d said) and curling it over her shoulders.

Breathing in deeply, she curled her fingers into the sleeves; the coat was just a little too loose on her, but she liked it that way. “Are you nervous?”

“All ghosts make me nervous,” he said with a shrug.

She sighed, looking out over the shadowy, rocky plot of land. “It’s just a child.”

His gaze skittered from side to side. “Children make me nervous, sometimes.”

Glancing away, she bit the inside of her lip. “You’re quite all right with Teddy.”

Clearing his throat, he remained silent, and she continued to watch the dark ground, the wind curling through her hair. An odd tightness lingered in her throat, thinking of Harry holding little Teddy Lupin, watching her hold Bill and Fleur’s young daughter Victoire with a strange gaze.

“Were you going to tell me about seeing it?”

She looked askance towards him, resting her elbows on her knees. “Is that what’s been bothering you all afternoon?”

He didn’t answer, just continued to pace, and she rolled her eyes. In between walks around the cliffs and poking their heads into the small shops around Firth, he’d grown distant and a little cool. She’d been expecting it, but hadn’t wanted to ruin the entire afternoon by bringing it up.

“I thought it was just an illusion, or some odd sort of trick of the light. I didn’t want to worry about it,” she said after a moment, planting her chin on the heel of her hand.

Stopping abruptly, he turned to face her, his wand clutched tightly in his hand. “And what if you had just disappeared too?”

She tilted her head, wetting her lips. In the growing darkness, she couldn’t totally read his face or his gaze. “Are you mad because I didn’t tell you, or because we’re here at all?” she asked after a moment.

Even in the dark, she could see his shoulders stiffen. “Both.”

She can’t help the quick stab of annoyance, impatience with him. “This doesn’t have anything to do with you being here, Harry. It’s a coincidence.”

“It’s still happening,” he shot back mulishly, facing the graveyard.

Watching his face in profile, the hard line of his jaw, she sat in silence for a moment, choosing her words, just as he’d take the time to choose his. “We’ll talk to the ghost, we’ll get the girls back. We’ll still have all night and all morning tomorrow here together—“

“It’s not that, the holiday’s been fine—just—will I always feel like this?” he asked, voice sharp in the crisp air. “Will I always dread Portkeys, and your away matches, and not spending a night in the same bed as you?”

Her heart clenched, and she had to blink back sudden hot dampness from her eyes. For all the progress made, and the lives they’d all been able to live so far, those dark years were still just breaths from where they were now, and the memories and remnants of that battle, of that time still seeped into their everyday moments. She could see it especially in the moments when Harry was with Teddy, who was the spitting image of both Remus and Tonks somehow; that heavy darkness lined his face, even through the smiles and the joy.

“I don’t know,” she said finally, standing up from her perch. “Just how I don’t know whether I’ll ever be able to celebrate a Christmas at the Burrow and not spend part of an hour by myself crying over Fred. I haven’t been able to yet.”

He faced her then, mouth thin and eyes soft in his face. She shrugged and smiled slightly, walking towards him. “I can keep hoping, though. I will keep trying. That’s all we can do, isn’t it?” she asked as she took his wandless hand between both of hers, warming it between her palms.

Wrapping his fingers into hers, he relaxed into her, shoulders slumping slightly. “Reckon so. I didn’t realize, about Fred—“

She squeezed his hand. “It’s all right,” she said quietly.

They stood in the quiet darkness, the wind whistling almost mournfully around them. In the distance, she could hear the sea waves below, rhythmic and soothing.

He kissed the crown of her hair. “I have had fun here with you,” he said after a moment, sheepish and quiet. “Except for the whole date in a graveyard.”

“Which was yours, daftie,” she muttered, glancing him over.

He twirled his wand between his fingers casually, brow furrowed. “Ghosts of children haunting young women.”

“And then the young women disappear,” she added, sighing. The sun had completely sunk below the waterline now. “Not much of a holiday, I reckon.”

He glanced at her and slipped his fingers into hers. “As long as you don’t disappear,” he said seriously.

“I’m not,” she said firmly. “Ghosts probably like us, is all.”

“I don’t find that comforting at all,” he said with a small groan.

She shivered slightly, curling into his side, to catch some of his warmth. The breeze carried the sea salt through the air, into her nose. “I’m still glad we came.”

“Mum?”

Silence settled between them at the small reedy voice from behind. Slowly, she turned and found a small, translucent child floating nearly at eye level, just steps away from her. It was a boy of no more than seven, she could see that now, wearing a tattered christening robe, with hair that looked almost red, even in the pearly glow. His hair hung in waves to his chin; he looked as if from another time, but she couldn’t be sure.

“Mum?” he asked again, reaching out a small opaque hand.

Harry’s hand tightened in hers, and she slowly shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. I’m not your mother,” she said as gently as she could.

His hand fell back to his side, and his brow wrinkled. “I’m looking for her.”

“I know,” she said quietly, evenly.

“I don’t want to leave without her,” he said faintly. “I did once, and now…”

He trailed off, a trembling shade, and her heart broke faintly. “What happened?” she asked.

“I went to the ocean. I liked the water,” he said, keeping her gaze with a steadiness that unnerved her. “She told me not to, but I did. And then I was here.”

Waves crashed mutedly behind them; she took a step forward, careful not to touch him. “Why are you here?”

“Because I’m scared.” He looked past her, to the side. “You understand, don’t you?”

She glanced back at Harry, who had the strangest expression on his face, as if he was looking at something he’d seen before. Swallowing hard, she turned back to the ghostly little boy in front of her. “I do,” she said after a moment. “But perhaps she’s already there, waiting for you?”

The ghost turned his head away towards the ground. “I don’t know where _there_ is,” he murmured.

“Neither do I,” she said honestly, the evening air chilling her through. “But if she’s not here, she’s probably there.”

“Do you think so?” he asked, all innocence and wide eyes, and she was suddenly aware of the power she held in her hands. For all that he was just a ghost, he was still a child, and he still only wanted his mother.

“Yes, I do,” she said steadily.

He smiled then, bright and wide and white. “I will go look there, then.”

With a sharp crack, almost like Apparation, he was _gone_ , just like that. In his place, sprawled on the ground, lay two girls Ginny knew from the presses and Quidditch weeklies; both were blonde and slight and unconscious.

Harry released her hand and went to the girl, as Ginny let out a deep breath. Her hands shook just faintly.

“They’re fine, just out of it. We can float them back to the village,” Harry said, kneeling at the girl’s side. He grabbed his wand and cast a silent Levitation Charm, floating them both at his side.

“Good,” she said with a sigh, rubbing her forehead. “The organizers are staying in one of the inns near here, we can take them there.” She walked over to join him, curling her hand into the crook of his arm. “That was very strange.”

He snorted, pressing a glancing kiss to her forehead. “Not as strange as other encounters,” he said distantly, obviously lost in thought.

Slowly, they began to walk. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask, to pry the whole story out from him, but she held her peace, keeping her focus on the path ahead, and the girls at either side. There were some things left unexplained, even between the two of them.

“You did well with him,” he said abruptly as they neared the lights of the organizers’ inn.

She looked up at him in surprise. “With the ghost?”

He nodded, a hint of a flush on his cheeks that she couldn’t entirely blame on the cold. “Yeah. You were good with him.”

“Boys are boys, even when they’re ghosts,” she said, a strange warmth rising through her middle.

Looking off, he ducked his head, awkward again. “I know… just—it was nice,” he said softly, finally meeting her eyes.

Abruptly, she _knew_ what he was trying to say, and it caught her breath for a moment. As the tall, lanky women who organized the exhibition hurried out of the inn to take the missing girls from their care, she watched Harry, who spoke with business-like ease. Harry, who’d never mentioned a word of marriage or children, except for that hint, left out in the open air from an encounter with a ghost-child.

If that wasn’t completely them, she didn’t know what was.

“Ready?”

She looked at him as he came back to her side, everyone safely inside. In the warm yellow light from within, he was smiling faintly, his hand cupping her elbow. He was steady, if still a little dark in the eyes, but he was there, ready. The night wind curled between them, fresh and clear.

Curling into his jacket, she slipped her hand into his and smiled. “Ready.”

*


End file.
